


Winter always comes after the fall.

by Pilux



Category: World of Warcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilux/pseuds/Pilux
Summary: Wrathion getting himself into trouble and is thankfully bailed out by family.





	Winter always comes after the fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Muse exercise with a bit of a theory that just came to mind and thought it’d make for a cool scene. As always, I could be horribly wrong as I don’t work for the Wow Team. In case, like me, you were hoping to see more of Wrathion in Legion.

The frozen winds of Northrend wrapped itself around Wrathion in an attempt to make him bow to the sub-zero temperatures. Although it wasn’t his preferred climate, it wasn’t enough to cause him discomfort or worry. He mused to himself about the poor weather while slinking around Icecrown, knowing what to look for, but unsure of what he would find.

He soon regretted not taking more caution as he explored the frozen wastes.

Sharp, cold fingers dug into his chin as his head was forcefully tilted up. He did not recognize who his captor was, but he knew WHAT he was. The black and violet robes emblazoned with skulls was still the signature look of anyone who served in the Cult of the Damned. Many thought the Scourge and it’s loyal, living servants had been defeated.   
Wrathion knew better.   
Just as he knew the Legion was on its way, he had seen that the Scourge was not keeping to Northrend as promised to Mograine. He knew who now sat on the throne. He knew that the next threat to Azeroth would always be on the heels of the previous. 

Wrathion didn’t let his slipup falter his swagger, perhaps being caught would work in his fortune! He gave the cultist a sly grin, with a mischevious twinkle in his eye.

“Excellent, Mortal! Now it’s your turn to hide!”

The Cultist was taken aback, unsure if Wrathion was serious or not.

“What? Don’t you like playing games? Pity. I thought you humans always found them to be irresistible. Though I see you prefer to play dress-up. Does your mother know you stole her drapes?” 

The Cultist was downright insulted, letting go of Wrathion’s chin and storming out of the room. The dragon prince was left by himself, chained to a seat in a musty, smelly mausoleum. 

“Your snark is amusing. I may enjoy having you down here for company.”  
Wrathion’s ears perked up at the voice echoing in the otherwise empty room. He did not recognize it, but the deathly aura was enough to send a chill up his spine.

“I try not to make a habit of speaking to disembodied voices. Perhaps you should reveal yourself to my eyes so that I know to whom I am speaking to.”

That chuckle sent another chill through his body.

“I would be more than happy to oblige, alas, I’m just a jar at the moment. So forgive me if I can’t waltz over to join you. Don’t worry little Prince, I’m not in your head.”

Wrathion pursed his lips together, unhappy that the speaker knew who HE was, but was left guessing on who the voice belonged to. Perhaps he could fake knowing, thus tricking the “jar” to reveal himself.

“Ah, I thought that was you.”

The voice managed to roar with laughter despite its softness and Wrathion hoped it was a successful play.

“You have no idea who I am, child. I am not dense. Sad, really. There was a time when my voice would strike fear into those who did not serve me. I am sure, however, you can figure it out on your own.”

This was beginning to feel more and more like a game, and he couldn’t help but wish it were chess with Anduin. The voice was right, however, whoever he was he had to be connected to the Scourge. Not the Lich King, he wouldn’t have time to play a guessing game. Certainly not one of the new Horsemen…he mentioned a Jar. Perhaps instead, it was a phylactery? He thought for a moment longer as he realized he must be talking to a Lich. He knew of only one who was a persistent pain in Azeroth’s side.

“You can’t possibly be…Kel’thuzad? Allowing yourself to be stuck in a jar?”

“Better to be in a jar, than in hell.”

Wrathion couldn’t argue with that. Regardless, stumbling upon the Archlich in ANY form was not something he expected to occur at all. This was a troublesome development, further validating what he had discovered in Draenor. The Scourge was planting the seeds for a third attempt to take over Azeroth. Regardless of what the Legion was doing, this foul allegiance of the damned saw it as an opportunity to act while everyone else was distracted. A smart strategy, he concluded. Every hero slain by the Legion was fuel for the Scourge War Machine, and in the event the heroes of Azeroth failed completely…well…the dead certainly don’t need the rest that the living requires in order to fight. His thoughts then turned to those of escape, Anduin must be alerted at once! Even if nothing could be done right away, at least the young King would be prepared for the inevitable -

“You’ve gone quiet on me. Were my words that profound?”

Wrathion snorted at his thoughts being interrupted.

“Hardly.”

It was a couple of days of back and forth banter before Wrathion started to notice the frostbite sneaking into his body. He may be more resilient than say, a human, but he still had his limits. Kel’thuzad seemed to notice his growing discomfort, despite Wrathion trying to deny it. He had not expected these chains of shadow and ice to be so effective. And it was slightly embarrassing, to be honest. It was in this brief moment of humbleness when he realized that not a soul on Azeroth would be looking for him. By now, everyone had gotten used to him not being involved with the Legion invasions so who would miss him? He hardly kept in touch with enough people to earn any worry. The soft chuckle of Kel’thuzad gripped his heart with fear. Had he finally made a mistake he couldn’t wriggle himself out of?

He was being kept alive, at least. Kel’thuzad clearly saw him as a pet and didn’t want to lose the snarky conversations they had with each other.

How much time had passed? He’d lost track. His teeth clattered, his body shivered and eventually, the stress forced him to revert to his whelp body. At one point his body lurched as if he had been impaled by a great force and his head ached from someone else’s pain.  
Resting was difficult, and potentially dangerous, but he was too exhausted to be awake all the time. It made the passage of time ever more daunting. So when the day arrived that a loud roar broke the banter of the Lich, Wrathion was unsure of how long he had been down there. Let alone, if the roars were real and not a dream trying to break through. Luckily for him, Ebonhorn stomping through the mausoleum to retrieve his little brother was reality. He remembered the bonds being broken, Kel’thuzad being angry, the warmth of Ebonhorn’s body and the scent of his fur. And finally, sleep.

When Wrathion awoke he immediately recognized the smell and heat of the Black Dragonshrine. He was no longer being cradled by a fluffy Tauren, but instead, he felt the scales of Ebonhorn’s true form. He had the whelp tucked away safely in his arms as they lay near a bubbling pool of magma. Although his head had been resting on the ground, the older dragon was awake, alert. And shot his head up instantly upon Wrathion stirring.

“I had thought something was amiss when I did not see you investigating Silithis.” He was calm, worried, but didn’t scold Wrathion for having found himself captured. A mistake lesser, younger, dragons would make. Completely forgetting that he himself was young and that even the Aspects weren’t above finding themselves in trouble. Wrathion tried to wriggle away, but his body still ached and Ebonhorn tightened his hold enough to prevent him from wiggling off.

“Why? What has happened in Silithis?”

“Sargeras has impaled Azeroth with his own sword, and she bleeds her very essence as we speak. Horde and Alliance are already fighting for this resource.”

Wrathion struggled harder to break free, but Ebonhorn refused to let him go anywhere.

“I must tell Anduin what I have discovered! He must not go to war! He must not…”

“Hush, little brother.”

“Excuse me. You may be my elder but I am -still- the prince of the -”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you are still my little brother. Hush. Rest.” He lay his head on the stone floor once more. Wrathion puffed up in irritation, tired of being chained down by one thing or another. Ebonhorn heaved a heavy sigh, glancing at the whelp. “I have lost many family and friends to the insanity and destruction of others. I would prefer to not lose you to these frozen lands.You are very, very lucky I came for you.”

Wrathion couldn’t argue with that and finally settled down to get the rest that was being demanded of him.

When he finally made his way to Stormwind, he couldn’t help but play up the ordeal he went through to get this information to Anduin. Who, unfortunately for Wrathion, did not seem overly concerned for Wrathion’s tale.

“Is there a point to this? In case you haven’t noticed, Sargeras dealt a heavy blow to Azeroth and the Horde is -…” He quickly calmed himself, not wanting to raise his voice at an old friend.

“Ah, yes, I was getting to that! So I quickly realized that those ghastly robes belonged -”

“Wrathion.” Anduin pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the stares of Greymane boring holes into the back of his skull. The Dragon Prince looked momentarily insulted, but one look from Anduin was all it took for him to drop the dramatic retelling and get right to the point. The amount the young King had grown since Pandaria was evident, and perhaps it was time for him to stop playing games as well - for the moment, at least.

“The Scourge is -” He was cut off yet again as Anduin held up his hand.

“Wrathion, I’m stopping you there because you can not possibly be serious.” He was already exhausted by the mere THOUGHT of what the dragon was going to say. “Do you exist in my life now, to warn me of threats so far in advance that I can not possibly do anything about it because we’re currently in the middle of…of a war!?”

“Yes.”

Anduin sighed.   
“The most I can do is alert the Silver hand and the Crusade, as well as Mograine. I’m sure whatever is going on, they can more than handle it as they have for the past several years. Did you think to go to them at all? There’s a chance they’re already monitoring and have a handle on what you’ve rushed over to tell me.” He glanced behind him, and Greymane jerked his head towards a back room before walking off. Another sigh as he rubbed his chin in thought, trying to hide his worry. “Thank you anyway. It’s good to know you didn’t just abandon us. I’m glad you’re okay, but I have to go now.”

“But…”

“Wrathion, I have to go. I think you should too. People are still…unhappy with you. And to be honest I don’t blame them. If you want to catch up, you’ll have to come back later. Preferably not years later.” There was an awkward silence between the two before Anduin gave a polite bow and left Wrathion standing alone with a few guards, eager for him to leave. He puffed up his chest as if trying to hide his disappointment before transforming into a whelp and flying off.


End file.
